


the whole width of my intentions

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Angelic Grace, Book Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Magic, Season/Series 13, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: He's honestly so tired. Not just of losing, but of losing everything. It extends to every facet of his life, now. He's lost himself to this, and lost what little love he'd pulled from the teeth of his bloodthirsty world.Takes place after 13.02.





	the whole width of my intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after [13.02 The Rising Son](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=13.02_The_Rising_Son) (without reference to previews for upcoming episodes).  
> Please read tags and warnings.  
> Not a permadeath story.

The backs of his eyelids become the walls of his room.

He can't sleep.

He can't sleep for staring. If not at the walls, then at his own hands.

Dean knows what sleep deprivation does to him.

What it's _doing_ to him.

And what it will keep doing as it goes on.

He also knows that not-sleeping won't make anyone less dead.

His hands are acting like they have all the answers, right now. Like they don't need to follow his instructions and fucking sleep - they can pick up his phone and show him what he's missing.

Yeah, he sure needs a fucking reminder. Yeah. Right.

His scant threads of texts with mom.  
His cut-off threads that turned into hasty phone calls and yelling at Cas.

These hands held an angel blade and tossed it right through the neck of a demon.

Yes, he's got a practiced, easy talent for aim. Yes, he's been throwing knives since he was seven.

But something about the way Jack held that huge blade, plunged it into himself.

And something about the way Dean nailed that demon's neck.

Something about these things is being threaded together by his own, worn, working hands.

He thumbs at the screen of his phone. Scrolling far up to when he got this most current number.

Things were hostile, even then. Like Cas couldn't imagine a way he could make Dean happy and Dean was just angry Cas couldn't even try.

They'd been on opposite sides of things for so long. So many times.

If he weren't so exhausted, he might not need to sit up in bed and fumble a stack of fast-food napkins out of his bag to cover his face, dry his eyes. He wouldn't be fucking weeping if he weren't so tired, he tells himself.

He's honestly so tired. Not just of losing, but of losing everything. It extends to every facet of his life, now. He's lost himself to this, and lost what little love he'd pulled from the teeth of his bloodthirsty world.

"I'm just tired," he says out loud, strained voice and tear-stained shirt. Blows his nose and tries to keep it quiet.

When angels die, they get unmade. He knows this.

It shouldn't feel like--

His hands shouldn't feel anything. They're not doing anything more than they were meant to.

And Jack was just testing his own limits. Proving to himself he's invincible, like he had just learned.

Proving he's hard to kill. He's gonna be very fucking hard to kill and Sam is content to sleep down the hall from him like no big deal.

Well. Dean sniffs his sinuses clear as much as he can. The rest is nothing that the burn of whiskey won't do.

And he tosses his covers aside and stops trying to sleep.

In the morning, Sam wakes him up in the library, over about six unhelpful tomes on monsters that skip right from to Naiads to Negret to Nephthys to Nereids.

«»

They can't very well take the demon kid to go hunting with them and Dean will be damned if they put Jody or Donna or anyone else at risk around him.

"We can't lock him up here. Alone." Sam's eyes narrow and he flips a book shut on Dean's fingers so hard he has to snatch them out of the way.

"Well, we're not fucking taking him with," Dean rises to go pack because that's final.

If he weren't so sleep-deprived -- which, he _still is_ \-- Sam wouldn't be able to drop him, hard and fast, back into his seat with one quick jerk. "We take him with or I'm staying here with him."

Dean drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. Alright you little shit. "Or. I stay here with him."

"So you can strap him down and experiment with one-hundred-and-one ways to kill him? Sure. That's gonna happen."

He rolls his eyes and moves to get up. After all, there's one way this argument ends - his way - and, anyway, it's not like he hadn't been looking for ways to make that delightful scenario a reality, but none of the books had anything solid to cough up.

Sam only needs one hand to knock him back into his chair.

Dean huffs. "Wouldn't be able to do that if I weren't so fucking tired right now," he makes the mistake of griping aloud.

"Yeah, I also really wanna hunt with you being exactly as shitty and exhausted as you are right now. That, too. I can't wait for you to get one of us shot or be more sloppy or make another mistake that." Sam stops. Flexes his jaw. And it ain't like Dean didn't hear the end of that sentence.

"Me." Dean flashes a grin he knows looks unstable. "Me. It's me. Right?" He nods. "Mm. Right. Me who got mom killed. Me who shivved Crowley. Me who threw Cas onto Lucifer's blade. Me. Right? I'm the sloppy fucker always getting people killed. Me."

"That's not-"

"Exactly," Dean points, " _EXACTLY_ what you meant and what you were about to say."

"I'm a little tired, too," Sam tosses his hands up. "You know I wouldn't say that, Dean."

"You might as well have," Dean stands and kicks his chair back so it flips, crashes into a stand of candles and brings the old iron down hard on the wood floor.

"Mom isn't dead," Sam spits as he's walking away.

And it stops Dean short, that's for sure. Brings him back around reeling, laughing, out-of-his-mind hilarity. "Not-- not dead?!" he comes back to cackle right in his brother's fucking idiot face because- "Purgatory? Okay. Hell? Alright. Heaven? No bigs. You think we're somehow gonna fish mom out of an _alternate fucking dimension_ when she took a flying leap and brought Satan down there with her?" his hand tosses a stack of three books, sends it flying before he can stop himself. " _The fuck is your problem, genius??_ Does two-plus-two not equal four all the way up there?"

"Hey," Sam tries to start in a solid voice, tries to hold his ground and stare Dean down as he's squaring right up into his face.

"Did I leave smart-Sam back in that hole? Is that it? Or does that little shit have his fangs sunk so far-"

Sam looks like he's regretting it even as he's doing it.

If Dean weren't so tired, he wouldn't just have seen it coming. He might even have done something about it.

Yes, Sam looks real reluctant to snap up the spell tome he grabs. There's even a flash of remorse as the slam of the book against Dean's head drops his world into instant black.

«»

This time he's not half-buried under books when he comes too.

He's also a little surprised he's not strapped down to his bed with belts, to be honest.

Well-rested, though.

Well-rested enough not to think past the fact that his head is throbbing and it will feel better the next time he wakes up.

«»

No idea how long Sam's been sitting with him.

Or what the time is.

Must be late, though. Sam doesn't day-drink like Dean does. Like a real fuckin' champion. He only grabs the hard stuff late at night, and he's been into the bourbon a few rounds because he looks blurry and sad where he sits on the edge of Dean's bed.

He looks like he's been crying. With Sam, what you see is what you get, and so, yes, that means he has been crying. His awful red eyes and ruddy cheeks and the nasal tone when he breathes in deep. Takes him a while to start, even after he's noticed Dean awake again.

"I don't want to know this. But I'm pretty sure I know this better than anyone. Better than you. Or even Crowley. Or even Jack. Because I don't think Jack knows anything about Lucifer. You and I are gonna disagree on that until... I don't know. Until something happens. But you met Lucifer, Dean. You met him. But I had to live him." He sniffles. Moves his tumbler to his other hand to wipe under his nose with the back of his left.

"I had to live with him," Sam repeats into the stifling quiet of Dean's room. "And what scares the hell out of me is that I know he wouldn't have made it easy for her. If she even is dead yet. So, see. You really don't understand. And I do understand. Jack doesn't understand a damn thing. You know who would have understood?" he finally meets Dean's eyes. "Cas. Cas took away all that... all that pain I was feeling from hell. That hallucination I was living with. He shouldered that for me, so he'd know." Sam nods, dropping his eyes to stare into his glass again. "Castiel would know that death isn't the end with Lucifer. He plays with you. Plays with you," Sam repeats, mindlessly haunted. "Plays and. Hurts. And." His breath hiccups, like a stifled sob.

If the anger hadn't drained from Dean before, it's a dry well, now. He sits up and feels only a little ache in the side of his head and he grabs Sam's neck, thumbs there and rattles him a little.

Sam doesn't want to think about this.

So he shouldn't have to.

Dean returns the favor he got, only by way of taking the glass from Sam's hand and walking him down the hall to his bedroom. Makes him fall asleep on his side and props a pillow behind him.

He takes a bottled water from Sam's nightstand and cracks it open. Leaves it there with some aspirin he fishes from a bag. Dean brings back the tumbler and a bucket.

Sam was soused to have said that. Sam was drunker than he's been in a long time.

It's half Dean's fault and.  
The other half is Dean's fault, too.

Sammy should never have to lose himself so hard to admit these things but he was sure Dean wouldn't listen.

It makes sense. Because he also shouldn't have to clock Dean so he finally gets some goddamn sleep and listens to reason.

Dean sits by the bucket, down beside Sam's bed. Sits on the floor and slowly finishes the bourbon.

He rolls the glass against his knee and listens to Sam sleeping.

Listens to his words again.

Maybe the most horrible thing that could be true was the thing he wasn't allowing himself to consider.

That not everyone is dead. That, instead, mom is still alive and in pain somewhere they can't get to her.

It's not easy to consider because it's so probable. Because Sam is very right - he would know.

He would know.

Jesus. After having her head cracked open by the Brits, how long would she survive that?

He closes his eyes.

Not long.

It would be a mercy if that were true, though.

And life ain't exactly been full-up with mercy, lately.

Before he can crush the empty glass too hard in his hand, he gets up. Puts it on the table. Pushes Sam's hair back behind his ear. Pets his head goodnight.

He can feel someone watching him as he's reluctant to go.

He knows Jack is there before he turns and sees him.

Dean pulls the door closed behind him.

Leans against it and stares at Jack.

"Is Sam okay?"

The big, swelling instinct in him wants to tell the kid to fuck off. His risen hackles and his soul-consuming loss make him want to put the brat in cement shoes and stow him at the bottom of Lake Michigan until they can figure out how to keep him from breathing.

But as Dean is still leaning on the handle of Sam's door, Jack's fingers are playing nervously at the zipper of a hoodie.

Like some kid. Just like some teenager who saw people fight and wants to know if they're oka--

Dean sighs.

He remembers Jack's hand holding the knife.

Remembers there were no holes in him, but the shirt he had on was in tatters.

"Sam's okay. He uh. Just needs to sleep it off."

Jack should fear him. Or at least hate him. Or be concerned about him. But he doesn't back away from Dean. He looks like he wants to prop the door open and sit on the floor and wait for Sam to get up and prove it.

He at least has the brains not to trust a damn thing Dean says.

"C'mon," Dean turns him by the shoulder and they go back up to the great room.

Jack sits in one of the big leather chairs looking swallowed up and lost.

Dean gets an awful feeling he's gonna be apologizing for his behavior in the near future.

He finally pulls his phone from across the table where he left it before he got cold-cocked. He slept through a day. It's just past 10 p.m.

"You should get some more sleep," Dean says.

"I was reading. And watching television. On a computer. Sam was letting me. It was fascinating," Jack reports.

"Yeah, well, Sam's asleep, so it's bed-time."

"You're awake," he presses.

Dean rolls his eyes and flinches, internally, remembering all of a sudden what it was like trying to get Ben to sleep on a school night.

"Will you tell me about Castiel?"

Dean flinches _outwardly_ this time. Stands from the table, suddenly and heads to the kitchen.

Of course, Jack follows.

"Sam said you knew him best. And that he thinks Castiel knew _you_ best."

"Did he tell you not to goddamn ask me?"

"Yes, but since you and I aren't being nice to each other, I decided to ask."

Dean has to laugh a little and turns from the fridge to stare at him.

Jack shrugs like a learned behavior.

Like Castiel used to, at first.

In the raise of his head, Jack's defiance is there, but barely.

As much as Dean knows Lucifer was borrowing a human suit, he keeps looking for parts of him in Jack and not finding them. Keeps thinking that if he looks _deeper_ , he'll catch something.

But it ain't Lucifer or even Kelly that Dean keeps seeing in the kid.

"Go to bed."

"I want to know what he was like," Jack insists, quietly.

"Go to bed," Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a box of frozen egg rolls.

"Who's gonna know you best now that he's dead?" Jack says, just this side of angry. Just angry enough make a point.

Enough to make Dean's guts twist. "You're lucky if that ever happens once in your life," he admits, just a little breathless at knowing it might actually have been a fact. His hand is around the frozen box going soggy and his hand is still torn and bruised.

"It didn't happen for me in my life. It happened before my life. I never really got to have it," Jack says, pulling at the bottom corner of his hoodie again. "My mother knew me. My mother liked me. And I think I liked her. But now it feels like no one I like will ever really like me or know me again while I'm alive. And it feels like you want to make that time as short as possible."

Dean slowly shuts the fridge.

"How long did you get to know Castiel?"

He remembers the day. He remembers the lengths of time without; dead or missing. He says, "Eight years and some change. Nine. Something like that. The hell do you care?"

"I didn't get to meet him. I knew him a short time while he protected my mother. He called out to me in some ways. And I miss him. If I miss him. Well. I thought you might miss him."

"Doesn't mean I wanna talk about it," he snaps but it's dry and his voice is edging on an emotion he's damn well not gonna show to this kid.

His words.

His words are so innocent. He's so.

So seemingly innocent.

No wonder Sam thinks he's a good person. Or a force for good. Whatever.

Dean isn't gonna let him live long enough for Sam to know him. Because that's what would happen. Sam would get attached and the job would never get done.

"You're one of the only friends I have," Jack says, "and all you want is for me to die. Did you want Castiel to die, too?"

Dean stares. Stares and has no idea what to do or what to say and sleep deprivation is no excuse, now.

"I don't think you did," Jack answers his own question, eyes narrowed and glowing just slightly, that freakish gold. "He's a part of me. He shared himself to protect me. And I think he did that for you, too. So I'm just wondering. If Castiel wanted to protect us both, why do you think I should die unless you want to die, too?"

Dean smiles in a way that hurts.  
Nods.  
"I wanna die, too," he says quietly.  
He nods again.

Jack's eyes don't glow anymore. He thinks for a moment and then nods. "If Castiel didn't want you to die, I probably shouldn't let you."

He's gone.

He turns and he leaves and he's gone.

Dean's got a soggy box in his hand and the dumbest life anyone could ever be fucking punished with. All dead friends and no mom and a knot in his chest he can barely breathe around. And some fucking asshole teenager threatening not to let him kick the bucket peacefully the next time his number comes up.

He eats his egg rolls in silence and goes back to bed.

«»

They have a problem on their next case.

Jack keeps popping out of nowhere.

He's taken three bullets and a kick to the face, all of which Dean was having no problem dodging until there's suddenly a Satanic crash dummy bracing for impact in front of him. Each time Jack has displaced him and he's landed on his ass.

Which is actually really embarrassing when it happens in front of the bad guys???

You know it makes it look like he can't keep his balance or something.

He's not about to be seen hitting a _kid_ , but he's frustrated enough to want to at this point because Jack arrives all fumbling apologies and basically everything but politely handing the spent casing back to the perp as if he really regrets having to interrupt the murder attempt but he's _obligated_.

"The _fuck_ is with you?!" Dean spits, slamming the motel room door after they finally bag their monster.

Sam yanks the door open and barrels in after him, shoving him back against the wall and out of Jack's face. "Would you fucking leave him alone??"

"I'm just protecting you," Jack explains. "I can do that. I'm really durable and it was always during commercial breaks so I didn't even really miss what I was watching."

"DURING COMMERCIAL BREAKS!! OH, GREAT!!" Dean throws his hands up.

" _Dean!!_ "

"It's what Castiel would want," Jack tells Sam. "I think if Castiel was doing such good things, I can honor him by doing it, too!" he smiles.

Dean has to be shoved back against the wall again and this time Sam steals the Colt from his jacket.

"Jack. Buddy. Listen."

Dean scoffs.

Sam doesn't care. "Thank you, okay? Thank you. And I appreciate you helping us out and I'm glad you wanna protect Dean." He glares over his shoulder, "even if he's got persistent shithead syndrome." He turns back to Jack. "But we gotta handle this, man. The more often you're seen, the easier it is for demons to find you. We don't want them tricking you like last time. Or-- or _forcing_ you to do something you don't want to just because you're a nice guy."

Dean heaves a LOUD sigh.

Jack just shakes his head. "Castiel would want me to do this. I'm sure of it, now. He wouldn't tell me exactly when Dean needs me if it weren't true."

Sam freezes and Dean freezes.

"T- _tell you?_ " Sam stutters after a moment.

Jack nods.

"Tell you?" Sam repeats. "Tell you... how? Exactly?"

"I hear him in Dean," Jack's smile is soft this time. Almost shy. "I hear him in you, now, too, but it's quieter. I think it makes sense. He was closer with Dean. And he wanted Dean to live. So he left us with a way to protect each other. It's okay if Dean doesn't want to protect me!" he insists quickly. "But I know I can handle more than he can. So it's okay. I just need to keep doing his job. In his name. For him."

Dean's leaning over his knees at the moment. So he doesn't see how the exchange goes. But Sam asks Jack to come talk to him outside and they brush past him and go.

And all Dean can think about, suddenly, is how the monster died today.

By his hands, again. But this time it was Dean effortlessly lifting the Colt and putting a bullet between the bad guy's eyes. Steady as breathing. Barely had to aim. Kept on fighting the lackeys and then got knocked on his ass by Jack again and... then it was over.

Dean hadn't even felt his hand come up.

And maybe he wasn't dodging attacks as well as he'd like to, but his offence has been spot-on even if his defense has been iffy.

He's been killing with a quick hand.

A hand so fast it's like it isn't his own.

How many times did Cas glue him back together?

How much of himself did he leave behind if Jack thinks - honestly believes - he can sense it in him?

Dean breathes and straightens up. He turns and opens the door to the parking lot.

"-can't deny him that!" Jack is arguing with Sam, "He was my father and my father _loved_ Dean. I understand he wouldn't protect me, but I don't need it! Dean needs protection and if my father would have done it-"

Dean turns around and walks back into the motel and locks himself in.  
Double-locks.

Turns to the bathroom and locks himself in there, too.

Closes the toilet lid and lands there so hard he thinks he's lucky the seat didn't crack.

He's either hallucinating or Jack was just talking about how Cas is his father.

 _Cas_ is his father.

Not Lucifer, but the dead guy who loved Dean. Which is debatable but can still only be Castiel.

He leans heavily over his knees again.

He can hear the pounding from out front.

He can't breathe.

Dean puts a hand over his mouth and nearly hyperventilates before the sobs come.

Cas would have saved him.

He did so many times.

Cas is dead. Dead now.

Cas is dead now. And all Dean gets is this consolation prize antichrist who could probably eat the planet if they stopped feeding him 3 Musketeers bars and Dean doesn't want any of this.

He was so fed up and done with fucking Crowley - for years - but if it meant reversing time and getting Mom and Cas back and not having to tote around this kid who _dares_ to say he's doing anything on Cas's behalf--

Jack, obviously, is the one who unlocks the doors and lets Sam back into the motel.

Sam comes rushing in like he can do anything and Dean has to scramble into the tub and curl himself in the fucking shower curtain until Sam stops trying to be soothing and fucks off.

Leaves the room. Takes the kid out for dinner. And lets Dean be here on his own with his dead-everybody life and knowing this fucking kid he doesn't want and doesn't know what to do with is actually who he's meant to protect – it's not the other way around. It never was supposed to be Jack's job to cover Dean's ass. Cas never would have asked that of the kid.

Dean isn't powerful enough to protect him.  
And he can't protect the world from this teenager.

Mom fought her way to death.  
Or worse.

And Cas couldn't love him because he was always a shit. And now Dean's a shit to his kid and it somehow makes it ten times as impossible for him to be dead.

If Cas is dead and this is it for the rest of his life, he has to wake up and look that kid in the eye every day.

He has to wake up knowing Sam probably told Jack not to say that in front of him.

He has to stand here every stupid day of the rest of his life with everyone knowing what he didn't want to know until he couldn't hide from it on a bathroom floor.

Dean is breathing into a shitty old shower curtain and his best friend is never coming back. He has one fifth of a family for the rest of his life or until Sam checks out on him.

Somewhere, deep down, he was getting the signals. He knew he was.

There's so much Cas in Jack that it's undeniable. That alien other-ness he has was never like Lucifer's cold, slinky circling.

Cas was overt and earnest. Curious and fierce. And never uncaring, like the rest of his brothers.

Fact is, it's exactly -- _hauntingly_ \-- like Cas to interrupt Dean's every chance to die.

It's like him to lift Dean's sword when he doesn't have time to take the shot, too. And aim for him when he can't spare a moment to be precise.

Ultimately, it's unfair. It's cheap and Dean hates the idea that there's some wisp of grace in him helping him fight and helping Jack keep him alive, but not one drop of grace was left after Cas was stabbed so Dean could say goodbye.

Not even _goodbye_.

He trips out of the bathtub and out to the main room. He drank all the beer yesterday. It's all gone. He's got nothing.

He's got nothing but Sam. And Jack. And this crap life.

And a revenge shot at Lucifer is utterly out of reach.

Just like mom.

«»

It's harder to hate Jack after that and Dean despises him for it.

If this didn't visibly make Sam twice as miserable as before, Dean might keep trying to hate him.

He just.  
Can't.

Sam is beyond worried when Dean lets him drive them home. He wakes up after two hours in the passenger seat at a truly awful angle for his neck. And Dean has to warn him, "You pay better attention to the road than me or you fucking pull over and give me the keys back."

So Sam sits up a little and shifts and keeps his eyes on the road. Except for one glance he shoots into the rear-view mirror.

Dean looks back over his shoulder. Jack is asleep.

They haven't talked about what Dean heard. And he doesn't want to talk about it.

Honestly? Dean doesn't know _what_ he wants.

Something impossible, maybe. To summon and trap an angel and demand to be taken back in time.

Should have kept the body. Should have summoned one and cut it open and poured it into Cas's empty shell to see if he came back to life.

Dean laughs at himself. Laughs and looks out the window.

It never felt like this before.

How come it never felt like this before?

Probably...

Probably the wings.

It's probably because this is the first time he saw the perfect outline of Castiel's battered old wings in the sand. It wasn't a scum-soaked jacket or the messy death Zachariah gave him. And it wasn't after all this.

After Dean pulled the scraps of his family together and thought they had a shot.

"Jack said," Sam clears his throat to talk softly, over the thrum of the car and hush of the road. "Jack said maybe he could work on opening the portal back up. But I think we ought to be ready for if something notices and steps back through it. To our side."

Yeah. Sure. Lucifer or someone else they can't kill. "What's the point of that?"

Sam shakes his head. "We don't know mom's dead," he insists for the umpteenth time.

"Right. She could just be battered right out of her mind again. Sounds great," Dean answers dryly.

The needle on the speedometer tips down a little when Sam's pissed and formulating responses. Dean doesn't wanna get home slower, so he doesn't say anything else. Turns back on his side and decides to act like he's sleeping again.

"Something's gotta give," Sam says.

"Bullshit," he shoots over his shoulder. "Nothing has to give us anything. We've never gotten anything we didn't have to pry out of someone's cold, dead teeth.

«»

Dean watches Jack eat his food, now.

Sam's always on toxin-free diets and recovering from having to stuff his face with pizza while on hunts and shit like that.

So it's actually kinda nice that Jack will devour whatever Dean cooks without asking if it can be made with avocado instead of butter or cauliflower instead of potatoes and whatever.

Aside from the automatic growth spurt, he doesn't seem to be getting bigger or more voracious. He's just kinda suspended this way. Like he's waiting for the rest of the world to catch up to him, instead. Or like he doesn't know how to be another way.

In the past, Cas had gone missing or hunting for longer than he's been gone, now. It shouldn't feel like Dean got a limb lopped off. But it does. Maybe because he can't even text him. And has no way of looking forward to so much as cuffing him on the shoulder for not bothering to call when he does reappear.

Because he won't.

Dean swirls his glass while Jack eats anything that could possibly have served as leftovers if they weren't suddenly housing a vacuum.

The other day Sam finally said something. It was along the lines of, 'Maybe if Cas can't be here for him, Jack's kind of like your son. Maybe you have to accept that.'

He doesn't have to accept shit, for the record. He tried raising someone else's kid and he nearly got Lisa killed, too. Parenting is pretty clearly not in the cards for him. He wanted it, badly, but now he needs a pass. He needs to tap out on this fight.

"Maybe it's what Cas would have wanted," Sam had said.

And, for all Dean knows, that might be true. It's not like they were telling each other everything at the end.

Not like they ever really did.

If they did, Dean would have been on the receiving end of a startled stare/confused silence combo after admitting he was sick of having to track Cas down or wait for him to come around and that it broke--

 _broke_ his fucking heart that Cas would readily share a foxhole with him, but wouldn't hang his goddamn coat up in the bunker.

He was used to mom being dead, you know? It was that way for years. But there's a new bitterness here at home, where, one day, he might have poured all this out to her, or at least had a drunken phone call with her, and explained. And she might have been there to say 'this is hard and I get it' at the very least.

But he never gets used to Cas being dead and this carries a new flavor, too.

Or different than that - more like somebody punched him so hard he can't smell anymore. Like it took a whole range of sensation away from him and he just doesn't experience shit correctly anymore.

He doesn't wanna be Jack's dad. Doesn't even want what Sam does - to show him the right path and guide him down it.

Jack is the mile-marker next to where the engine bit dust. The car isn't on fire anymore but two of the tires blew in the blaze, the glass is warped, and there's little hope of recovering the front end. And the mile-marker just sits there, half-way between two rest-stops and no actual exits. A long drag of highway like you find in the south. Even if you could get off, where the fuck would you end up? Certainly not someplace better.

He smiles, sometimes - Jack smiles at Dean. Like now, when he really likes his spaghetti and he thinks of things he saw on YouTube that he wants to wonder aloud about.

Dean is Jack's friend, even if Jack isn't Dean's friend. And that's just how it is because nobody seems to fucking know if the offspring of an archangel even _can be_ killed except in all-out angelic war which... frankly there's no longer enough angels to get a committee meeting quorum, never mind a war.

Maybe Dean and Jack can be real friends. Maybe it will hurt less than this dead-end he's been sitting in.

He's not about to toss the ball around in the front yard with the kid, but if he's going to insist on being both present and invincible, maybe he can be useful.

It ends up taking longer in the shooting range to get Jack used to his Ruger than it does the blade he nearly skewers Sam with sparring in the garage.

Useful is going to be a... slight understatement.

«»

Whether it's from sheer denial or mindless obedience, they don't know, but the three of them end up fighting off angels basically every other goddamn week when they spend too much time away from the bunker. It truly seems like nobody got the memo that angel blades don't work on Jack.

Neither do angelic swords.  
And not even fancy fucking angel chains made from... who knows? The links of Michael's armor or whatever.

Jack _apologizes_ for breaking their stuff and says it was kind of a pretty chain while it lasted, he just didn't like how it chafed his wrists.

He is... something else.

Knowing that, there's no reason Dean should be rolled under an angel in his smart power suit, using both hands to try to push his blade away so he doesn't skewer Dean through the lungs. Jack uses the angel who was attacking Sam to dislodge him once he pries them apart and suddenly, eyes flashing like solar flares in a rage, he flings them both against the wall, pins them there by the throats and starts squeezing.

Again - Dean _knows_ they can't hurt him.

Dean knows this.

But when the blade flashes into the other angel's hand and she lashes at Jack's side, Dean's there, socks her in the jaw, and fights to pry the weapon out of her hand.

Jack _whips_ the first angel to the side like he were nothing more than a toy, sending him through the next three walls, and--

Stops.

A breath rushes into him. His eyes lose their shine. He keeps the other angel pinned against the wall, now terrified and clawing at his hand on her neck.

But he stops. And lets her go. Shakes it off.

He grabs her by the hand and drags her over to where Sam has retrieved the other guy.

Dean scoops some of his own blood off the floor to make a sigil and they hold the angels in place while he banishes them.

Jack's cool. He's good. "I didn't like that. Can we go home?"

Sam pats his head. "Yeah, buddy. Couple hours, okay?"

But Jack looks truly shaken, like he didn't like getting that angry.

Dean's glad he would make a crappy angel.

Actually, he thinks - Cas would be proud of him.

Sam collects their guns and the bag he dropped while Jack just kind of stands there looking at the man-shaped hole in the wall.

"Hey," Dean is busy holding his wounded arm still, but he walks over to elbow Jack lightly. "We can go, okay? You can go on ahead home with Sam while I clean up from the case if you want."

Jack blinks back to himself. "No..." he says in a daze. "No. That's alright. I don't want you to be alone."

He looks down at Dean's arm.

Touches his shoulder. "But thank you," he nods.

And then follows Sam out the door.

Dean looks to his sleeve.

Dean... carefully lifts his arm.

It's fine.

Jack's never healed him before.

Shit, Dean didn't even know Jack _could_ heal him.

When he asks about it later, Jack even insists he didn't.

But then Dean snags his arm, about to ask him if he's sure he didn't feel anything when he--

And.

Dean just knows.

«»

He's staring at his hands in the dark again.

This time, he sits on the side of his bed and brings his two palms together. Connects them like he were about to drop to his knees in honest prayer.

Weeks of this. Of feeling correct - just _perfectly correct_ \- every time he aimed. And of Jack knowing where he was. And watching Sam grow more and more relieved as they learned to trust each other.

Even the fact that Dean does - he really does trust Jack.

He sits with his hands together. Eyes up.

He wouldn't talk to God. Chuck isn't going to respond. He's reconnecting with his sister or he's got nothing to give Dean. Either way, he doesn't pray to God.

"You got your ears on?" he asks Castiel.

It is quiet. That doesn't change.

"Were did you go?" he asks the quiet. "When I die, I won't get that far, will I?"

His hands have more power than he knows, just like Jack.

There's some amplified signal in each of them they aren't aware of.

Fuck knows Cas had to rebuild his dumb ass enough times that he must have used too much of his own grace to keep making the repairs. Dean wouldn't have lasted this long, otherwise. Certainly not on his dodgy left leg.

And they know - they know for sure - that Cas left too much of himself with Jack.

He keeps his hands steepled for so long he feels like a total tool afterwards.

If nothing else, the dead are at peace for not having to deal with this shitshow.

Nah. He's done enough dragging Cas back through the mud.

It's still not easy to sleep, but it's better than talking to ceilings.

«»

They feel _observed_.

It's creeping them out.

Sam and Dean, mostly. Jack is just confused by it.

They know they see angels, but the angels don't attack this time. It's like someone's keeping tabs on them or like they finally understand there's no fighting this, so they want to see how Jack works.

Maybe they're waiting, like Dean, to see if he's good or bad.

That's why, when they pin Dean alone, in the motel stairway, he fights with them until they just take him, because he's too much of a handful on his own.

If they're dragging him off to the sandbox, or wherever, Jack won't have a chance to lose his cool and prove that he's worth committing war against.

It's the least Dean can do for having been so utterly obtuse to start off with.

But it's not the sandbox and it's not some HQ.

It's a long drive to North Cove, Washington.

To a broke-down, hollowed-out house where they sit him on the ground out back.

When he was here last, they hadn't bothered to bury the ashes. Looks like that was a pretty bad oversight.

He knows what's still in him, now. And he knows what this looks like.

The angels have shovels and they're moving the ashes around and speaking Enochian to each other so he can't understand more than one word in ten.

There's fresh warding on every side of the house. When Dean tugs on that tenuous connection, that heat-of-the-moment panic that usually stretches far enough to reach Jack, he gets nothing. He knows Jack won't be able to follow him out here because he can't hear.

The pyre and the cloth and Kelly and Cas are a black soot pile on the ground, now, gathered into two straight lines as another car rolls up and two angels get out.

They pull a man out of the back seat and shove him to the ground.

He must have been more willing to talk because they had to gag him. Dean is clearly not coughing on cloth, himself, because he wouldn't talk to any of these assholes, anyway.

One of the guys tending the ash pile scoffs. Breaks the low rumble of Enochian. "I'm not gonna screw it up. We only need the one."

The angel who just got out of the passenger seat comes and nails the civilian in the back with her high heel. "No risks. We don't have time to separate out the ashes _flake by flake_." Her next is in Enochian, but she prompts him to get on with it.

They pull Dean and the bound man to their feet.

When Dean is taken too far out of the circle of activity, the angels snap at each other and he's quickly dragged back into place.

Two blades come out.

"Hey," Dean says. He's gotta be distracting while he figures out how to do this. "Hey, you fucking chumps. Is this what I think it is? You're not capable of nabbing a fucking child on your own so you're trying to resurrect the angel who was _better than all of you_ to hunt-"

He's punched and it's... effective. Blood comes streaming out his mouth and they laugh. He struggles, but he's held over one of the lines of ashes while the angel in charge says his words, reciting a spell.

The other guy is held by his bonds, too weak to do much fighting. He hangs over the ashes, too, and Dean sees it in his hair, his eyes - he must be related to Kelly, somehow. A brother probably.

"You fucking bastards," Dean spits at their feet but they don't allow any more of his struggles and the blade comes to his throat. He watches the civilian struggle weakly against his own.

The recitation crescendos, some sort of fire-and-brimstone style chanting, and-

Their throats are cut.

Dean hangs there bleeding and losing breath as the world rapidly goes bright-white at the edges.

He gets in one, last, good shove and stumbles back. When he rolls to the ground, they let him go. They've used him up. He's about to die and everyone knows it. Enough of his life spilled into the ash. Either their spell takes or it doesn't, but that depends on some more chanting and whatever and he uses the last of his strength to roll down the beach, toward the water, as far from the warded house as he can, thinking, calling _desperately_ for the kid to fucking hear him and-

Doesn't have the strength to do anything but gag on his broken throat.

«»

Equally jarring is the gasp back to life, half of him lying in the water and his head held above it in Sam's hands.

He laughs looking at Dean's startled flailing. He laughs with tears running down his face and some gleeful triumph almost making him look goddamn _out of his mind_.

When the asshole finally helps him up, he holds most of Dean's weight and then-

Dumps him into Castiel's arms. "I think you got this," he laughs again. Marches up the beach, past the wasted bodies of angels, to Kelly, who is holding Jack close, ash and her brother's blood clinging to her clothes.

Dean tries to stand straight and he's still growing his blood back, so that's, you know, inadvisable after losing _most of it_.

"Sit," Cas says, "here," he helps pull him over to a tree stump.

He sits Dean down and makes sure he can stay upright before coming back around to crouch in front of him.

They stare at one another. Occasionally glance back as Kelly laughs and weeps.

Finally Dean says, "I don't know what to say anymore."

Cas shrugs a little. "This does happen with an exhausting frequency." He squints, then settles to kneel. "Could start with... hello."

"'Hello, Dean,'" Dean quotes him.

Castiel nods. "Yes. Hello, Dean."

"Okay. Well." Dean nods. And. Pitches forward to crash himself on Cas and just ragdolls against him.

His arms come around Dean's back and he holds him for a while. He smells of blood and ash, too. But he also smells like the car. And whatever way his jacket always smells. And his hair is so good Dean clamps his head in one hand and buries his nose there.

This is not one-dimensional. This is not flat and unreal. Cas keeps him from listing too far off the tree stump and, even when he sets Dean back to rights, cradles Dean's head to rest against his neck.

"I'm concerned," he says to Dean's ear, quiet as he possibly can. "When Jack arrived he instantly banished all the angels but one. He brutalized him, Dean."

Dean can feel his laugh, airy and crazed, ghost against Cas's skin. "Takes some getting used to," he confesses, "but you don't have to be worried. Promise. You of all people."

Cas touches down his back and reaches under his jacket to do it again, closer.

"I saw your face when it happened."

"Don't."

"Dean."

"Don't."

"I'm sorry."

"Always are. But what if. Instead. What if you just come home," he sighs.

Cas hesitates. "Kelly. The child. They need protection."

"They got it. We got it covered. We'll work on it." Dean's fed up. Grabs his collar. Sits up and rattles the hell out of him. "Fucking come home."

Cas reaches to touch the stain on his collar, where the water washed his blood into his shirt.

Dean almost checks over Cas's head to see if anyone's looking at them.

Almost.

And then he doesn't. He pulls Cas's collar and drags him up a little to kiss him.

"I had enough of you left in me to resurrect you," he says against Castiel's mouth. "You gave me everything you had, how many times?"

Cas's fingers trail down the wrist that's holding him by the jacket. "Not everything."

"Gonna need some of it back, probably." He can't help but shut his eyes, leaning into Cas, still trying to get over the blood-loss dizziness and standard freakishness of being brought back.

Cas's hand glows, clamping his wrist for a moment. He feels a little better.

"How 'bout you? You all the way back?"

"Yes. More than might be expected. I could show you my wings-"

"Never again," Dean plants one more on his mouth. "Thanks. But never again. You get me?"

It takes Cas a second. It's worth the wait for that smile. "Yes, Dean."

"Your kid really missed you. He bullied me about not dying and everything. He's a chip off the ole block."

"He's not my kid," Cas helps him stand. "I had just... hoped to have some positive influence."

Dean can't help it. Low-standard-having motherfucker. He stands up tall and grabs Cas by the head again and kisses him a third time and thanks him when he nearly falls backwards. But doesn't. Because Cas keeps him standing. Gets him walking.

«»

The crash course is easier for Cas with Kelly there taking charge of her son's care and education. And diet.

Dean ends up having to keep confidence with Jack about their huge, dirty kitchen lie where they sneak out to get fast food and stay up baking brownies at 3 a.m.

Cas catches them at it, but doesn't tell on anyone about anything.

Jack is fine and all. Powerful. A good kid who Cas can be proud of.

But there seems to be a wariness Cas can't shake around Jack. After all, he's naturally more powerful - he was, even in the womb.

And when Cas woke up, it was to Jack murdalizing the guy who was doing the resurrection ceremony.

He's not alone, there, in his careful place on the sidelines. Dean is still here. Still not sure he can trust something this good to stay good.

Now. Them? That's a different kind of good.

One that he can trust. And can even nurture some hopes on.

Cas comes to his room the first few nights and stares at the walls with him until Dean catches his head or his collar or his ear and turns him and lets Cas kiss down his mouth to his neck.

The fourth night he doesn't come and Dean somehow sleeps, anyway.

In the morning, he reports that he stayed up and talked about the portal with Jack. And that they're considering how it happened and how it might be duplicated.

Something comes rushing back at Dean and he closes the bedroom door and sits on the mattress next to Cas.

"Yeah?" he asks.

Cas nods.

Dean breathes and puts some more hopes on the front burner.

He remembers wishing he at least had mom to tell her.

To tell her that he knew something. That he _almost had_ something. And he lost Cas and it was pulled from his fingers like a great white had caught the fishing line.

"We're gonna have to try that. But. But just. Not at the expense of either of you. I don't think I could look Kelly in the eye if-- and." He turns to look at Cas. "And you? I can't-" he whispers.

Cas nods. Takes his hand. "Okay." He wraps Dean's hand tight in his. "Alright. Careful."

"And not if it wastes you. Not wasting you again," Dean insists. "I'm not wasting this. Any of it."

He gets it. Dean knows he does. "We wasted enough. No more," Cas promises.

Dean is ready to plan, but in a while. First he has to tell Sam. Ask for Jack and Kelly's help. And before even any of that, he props his head on Cas's shoulder and Cas tilts his head, bumping them together. Quiet and lulling and simple. Easy.

He doesn't feel even a little tired.


End file.
